“I can understand why you love me,” he said, “because I have tried to win your regard, and we have been friends all our lives, but if Mateel cares for me, it is because there is more to me than Fairview has ever given me credit for. If that is not the case, then my ambition is hopeless, and if I have been thinking, it is about that. It is pleasant for me to know that, ignorant and rough as I am, intelligent people can admire me at all, for I am improving very rapidly, and in time I can hope to become worthy of the friendship of very good people. I am surprised to think how ignorant I was a month ago; I shall be in still greater wonder six months hence to realize how foolish I was when you first came to see me at the mill. I have no other hope for the future than that I can learn something every day, for if I live a long time I can hope to know something at last. It is not a great brain that can be exhausted at thirty, or even forty, and I expect to study very hard from now on, that I may catch up with others of equal capacity who began under more fortunate circumstances. I believe the day is coming when Fairview will be peopled with the kind of men and women I am acquainted with in my fancy; and when they arrive I am ambitious to be able to associate with them without the restraint of stupidity and ignorance.”
I was about to reply, when we heard Barker coming in, as the hour had arrived when he was to take charge, although we had not suspected that midnight was so near at hand, so rapidly had the time passed. Barker greeted me pleasantly, and although I supposed he had just crept out of bed, he was as fresh and cheerful as it was possible to be. While we were walking up to the house I mentioned the circumstance to Jo.
“I have never yet found him asleep,” he replied, “I think one of his eyes is always open, if not both of them, but I have given up all curiosity with reference to him. If he has a secret, and wants me to know it, I am always here, and he can easily tell me. But I am content to trust him just as he is. There can’t be anything very bad about a man who is always fair, just, and honest. I have an idea that when I have earned his confidence, I shall know his secret, if he has one, and that he will tell me. In the meantime I intend to make myself as useful as possible, and not annoy him with my curiosity.”
I had intended to ask Jo for a theory with reference to Barker during the visit, but after this I concluded that I would not.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE FLOCK OF THE GOODE SHEPHERD.
JO and I agreed that we would ride over to his father’s in the forenoon of the next day, and return by way of the Shepherds’ in the evening. We started in the morning before Barker was stirring, as he had worked until daylight, Jo riding the horse he had received from my father together with ten dollars in money, and I a clumsy but reliable animal from the farm, which I believe had assisted in hauling our wagons to the country, and which rode about as comfortable as a wheel-barrow.
When we arrived at the Ford, and as we stopped our horses to allow them to drink, I saw that several loads of stone for the dam had arrived since my last visit there, and Jo told me he intended to haul at least one load a week until he had enough, and that there would occasionally be dull days at Barker’s—as in times of high water, or ice—when he could work on his own enterprise for days at a time.
The house of hewn logs occupied by my grandfather was built on the crest of the hill above the creek, the ground on the side by which we approached it being lower, and covered with timber, and riding up to the fence surrounding it, we secured our horses, and went in. Although it was summer, Dad Erring occupied his usual corner by the fire-place, and had evidently just finished smoking a pipe, as the room was yet full of the fumes. He was very much surprised to see us, and was at once cordial and hospitable by asking us to pull up to the fire-place, which we did, although the fire had been out for several months.
“She’s not at home,” he said, divining that we wondered where Gran was. “She’s away. But I don’t know where. I never do. Both of you know that already. She has been away—” he rested one hand on his knees, and counted the days on the bricks of the hearth with his walking-stick—“three days. She may be at home in an hour; she may not return in a week. Both of you are familiar with the manner in which she comes and goes.”
I had frequently remarked of my grandfather that while others in Fairview said little because they were gloomy, he said little because he had little to say, and after finishing what I have quoted, he stopped as if wondering how he could find language to give his visitors to understand that they were welcome. He seemed to conclude at last that we were anxious to know next about his business (as if there was nothing in the wide world except his wife and the shingle business), and said:—